


The Other Half Of It

by outspaced



Category: The Half of It (2020)
Genre: F/F, Outspaced attempts to write, Retelling, different POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:06:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24021046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outspaced/pseuds/outspaced
Summary: A look inside the head of the mysterious Aster Flores, who guards her expressions and keeps her secrets. When your path is already laid out for you, why jeopardize it by letting yourself fall for somebody else?-If you're like a lot of people, people think they know you. They see me as Trig's girlfriend, as the popular one and it isn't that hard to put on a smile and take up their offers. If you keep yourself close enough, people will think that they know you when they really don't. That makes me untouchable. Untouchable because everybody thinks they know me but they don't know the real me. Well, except for you.
Relationships: Ellie Chu & Aster Flores, Ellie Chu/Aster Flores
Comments: 9
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. Standard stuff, first time writing on AO3 so formatting is, uh, experimental. Indeed, this is the cliche The Half Of It from Aster's POV but hopefully, I provide a new way of looking at her character. Not going to bore you here so sit back and enjoy!

There isn't much to say. In a small town like Squahamish, I've got everything someone could ever want. The only person who might possibly have it better than me is Trig; he's got the company, the girlfriend, and about half the town in his pocket. Me? I'm the girlfriend. If you think long run, and his mind's quite made up as it is, what's his is mine. Or close enough, at least. It's a good life: nobody really messes with me, Trig's family is nice enough, my parents are quite frankly overjoyed about it, Trig's... Trig's okay. He could be worse, you know? I guess I just go with it, it's what I have and it makes everyone else happy. I should be happy.

Sometimes I wonder if there's more to it. Should I object because I'm not feeling it? I mean, it's wonderful and all and I should be content but I'm not. I'm not satisfied. It's not fun. Girls dream of being where I am and it would break Mom and Dad's hearts if I ruined their carefully constructed plans. It's my happiness or theirs. Even if I chose mine, they would still find a way to make me miserable. Strict parents suck like that. Thing is, time's running out. This "long run" is coming and I don't know if my mind'll be made up by then or I'll panic and do something I'll regret. It's not all easy like that. 

"Look, sir, I know it sounds early but Aster's the girl for me. I just want your blessing for this," I hear Trig say as I tiptoe down from my room to get a glass of water. 

"Why, dear Lord, are you here at this hour? It is quite the opposite of early, it is very late and I would like my rest." That's Dad.

Trig sucks in a deep breath, he sounds nervous. "What I want" -he pauses. I know him well enough to know he's probably rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous habit- "is to, uh, get your permission for me to marry Aster." It comes out so fast it might as well be one word. "I was- I didn't want to ask earlier while she was around. From man to man, that's too awkward, you know?" 

My head spins as I rub the sleep from my eyes. Surely I'm still half-asleep, I'm not processing things right. He's never even mentioned this to me before. I mean, maybe I expect it but now? We haven't even graduated from school yet and Dad knows I want to go to college. That's- That's not right.

"I'm sorry, Trig, I didn't catch what you were saying." 

"IwantAstertobemywife."

What?!

"What?!"

"I just- maybe you should sit down first." As much as Trig might be stuck in his own world sometimes, he can be very considerate when the need arises.

Shuffling. I hear Dad sink down into the couch. Footsteps continue, Trig must be pacing.

"I know it must be quite a bombshell but I think it would be nice to settle down and-"

"I heard what you said." Dad sighs. He probably rubs his temple. It's surprising how much you pick up from people when you're with them so often, to the point that you know what they're doing even when you can't see them. "You're a good man, I know, but we need to talk. I need a man who can take care of my only girl, my Aster."

Footsteps slow. "I'll do anything! Thank you, thank you, sir!"

"Hush. You'll wake them. Now tell me, what do you know about her? Do you know she wants to go to college?"

"What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't know that? Of course I know! We don't have to get married, we can just be... engaged. How about engaged? We don't need to rush things but I'm sure, I'm just so sure that I want her."

If I know anything about Trig, it's that he's great at sucking up when he wants. I've heard enough. These words, these are the things I should from him first. It's wrong to eavesdrop. Besides, if I stay too long, I'll probably get caught and that'll be a hell of an incident. I don't have the brainpower to deal with that right now. I creep back upstairs, careful to skip the step that creaks, as their conversation fades into background noise that I can no longer make out.

It's a warm night, warm enough for me to lie on top of my covers for a while and stare at the ceiling. Is this what I want? To marry some boy I don't love because it'll make my family happy? Saying I don't love him sounds harsh but that's true... isn't it? Isn't love supposed to be that spark? A connection? Whatever it is, I don't think I'm feeling it. Words form on my lips and I breathe them out, to the faithful ceiling that has kept my secrets all these years. Or God. God who has kept my secrets all these years, I guess. If He's out there. I'm not sure sometimes. It's worth a shot anyway. There's no going back to sleep if I don't release some of all my pent up questions.

"Dear God, is this what I'm supposed to do? Should I marry Trig? Should I settle for someone because it's secure and everyone'll be happy." _Everyone but me,_ I think. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do, do I choose my heart over theirs? Is that fair? What's fair really? I'm supposed to have everything but it's not enough for me. Why can't I just be content? So, give me wisdom, to deal with my situation. I submit it into Your hands because You are the God who is in control. And, give me peace. Let me not lose sleep over... over this. Amen."

In these prayers, when there's nobody else here to hear me, I speak like God's my friend. I mean, He is my friend, we're supposed to have a relationship but I speak like He's a friend. Like the kind from school. It's so informal that Father Shanley would have a fit. That would be amusing, to be very honest.

I feel better now. Getting things out always helps. I wonder, if Trig and I were actually in love, if he would be the one I'm telling all my worries to. Would he guide me through it, be there by my side and reassure me? Hell, it doesn't even have to be Trig, it could just be a friend. I don't really have friends, I think. They're all superficial, they think I'm superficial. It would be nice to have someone to turn to, someone to support me and to hear me. I think that's what a real friend would be like. Do other people have real friends or are they all just faking it the way I am?

There are also those people who don't have friends. Those quiet kids who slip in and out of classes, who roam the edges of the corridors and don't get noticed. They don't get noticed unless you're looking for them, like me. I like to spot those who walk the edge of "being there", those who could disappear one day and nobody would notice. Maybe people would notice, but they won't notice in the way that counts. They would notice in the way of "where did that kid who I picked on go?" and "where did the one who does my math homework go?". High school is a lot about survival if you want to hang in, you've got to make yourself count. You make yourself popular or you make yourself useful. If you don't, you're a ghost and nobody would notice if you just vanished, even in a small town like this one. Perhaps being a ghost would be nice.

it's tiring, being present all the time. It would be nice, for a change, to slip somewhere unnoticed. To go off and do my own thing, not have Trig know my location all the time. He doesn't hang around like a lost puppy in the way of a confused teenager who doesn't know how he ended up with a girl. No, he just wants to know everything and where I am. It's not as bad as it sounds but it does bother me sometimes. Between him and my parents, I don't get much freedom.

I wonder what being a normal teenager is like. I mean, having endless possibilities out ahead of you, not being tied down so early, not faking things, that sounds nice. Then again, what is normal? If everyone's going to be different in their own small ways, there really isn't a "normal". Maybe there's a majority, or a mean, an average. Still, I wonder what it's like.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, didn't actually think people would check this out so (ﾟヮﾟ) The hallway scene is based off both the movie and the screenplay, which is why it varies from both  
> Want to talk? Come say hi to me at outspaced-writes.tumblr.com

_"Dear God, tell me what to do; give me a sign"_

No response.

Nothing. Not even a feeling. Well, it was worth a shot. Years of dragging myself to church on early Sunday mornings tell me that God works at His own pace, moves in His own time. Nothing I can do about it. Would be nice to have an answer sometimes. Believing is uncertain and confusing and I try not to let last night stay on my mind as I get ready for school.

It's almost mechanical, pulling on clothes and pasting a smile on my face. When people know you, you've got expectations. People want you to appear how you are in their mind, they want effort in your dressing, they want you to be pretty, relevant, smiling. All this only goes to show that being a ghost would be less tiring. Maybe not all the time but to not be seen once in a while would be great. Shame that it's too trivial to pray over.

The thing about being a teenager is that everyone's still figuring out who they are, what their roles are, and where they stand. I know where I stand, right by Trig's side by the time I get to school. We don't have that many classes in common and between periods, I busy myself with my locker. Sometimes hearing him and his buddies talk about how happy they are in Squahamish feels suffocating. I wonder how they do it. How can you be content when there's so much out there?

By afternoon, I'm restless. I've run into Trig countless times today and he hasn't mentioned a word about... about the thing. It's good, in a way, since he doesn't know that I heard since I shouldn't have been eavesdropping. Still, it's difficult to know more than you should and keep it all to yourself.

I spy Ellie braving her way through the corridor - more of a wall of students by this point - while preoccupied with her phone to her ear. The crowd tries to part around Trig, the king of the school, and his group but there isn't much space with everyone trying to get to class before the bell rings. The thing about Ellie is that she's not quite a ghost, she's a useful one. Immediately, I want to slap myself for thinking that. You don't break someone's worth down to how useful they are to you! They're human too. She's written too many of Trig's essays and I've read at least half of them. She has a way of words, she really feels and her brain doesn't leave any possible point untouched. If she doesn't elaborate in one essay, it's the center point of another student's homework. It's hard to find someone who really thinks and even harder to find someone who manages to translate that eloquently down onto a page. If you ask me, $10 for 3 pages doesn't do her any justice. Her writing is art and it deserves to be treated as such.

Trig crashes into her.

Everything goes flying, the loose sheets of paper gathered up in her arms cover the ground. I almost wince when I hear a book hit the ground. Hardcover. Those corners will never be the same again. Trig just laughs and continues walking, almost as if he did it on purpose. Maybe he did.

She scrambles to gather her things before they can be trodden on, hands reaching desperately. Trig's so caught up in his own world that I slip out from under his arm and he doesn't notice.

"These hallways are murder," I say, bending down to gather up the paper into a neat stack.

Ellie is silent. Still.

"It's a whole natural selection situation waiting to play out." I pass her the stack and turn my attention to the rest of her scattered belongings. It's too quiet. I look up.

She stares. She's been staring, frozen.

"I'm Ellie Chu," she finally says.

 _It's like social suicide to talk to me,_ she doesn't say. _You shouldn't pay attention to me,_ she doesn't say.

"Yes, I know," I laugh. "You've only been playing my dad's services for like four years. You're his favorite heathen. He can't handle mediocre accompanists - even if they are saved." I resist the urge to fix the corner of her flannel shirt. With any other girl, I would mention how much I like the color but something tells me that Ellie doesn't care so much for the way she looks. Her hair falls into her face and I wonder if I should tuck it behind her ear. No, that'll be weird. I need- I need to stop going down that path.

I glance at the book in my hands, checking the corners. It'll live. "'Remains of the Day'. Loved it." I hold her gaze. "All that barely repressed longing." I put it on top of the stack that has been reassembled in her arms. Just as the warning bell rings, I pick up her phone and hand it back to her. Her hand brushes mine for a moment before it returns to its place, holding the phone to her ear. I look at her, wondering if there's anything else to say. One-sided conversations are a little difficult like that.

She's silent, still staring.

The hallways clear surprisingly quickly once the bell rings. I walk off with a smile, not missing how her eyes follow me as she continues to stare.

That's not an interaction you have every day. More often than not, people approach me first, bubbling with barely contained words. Maybe that's why Ellie writes the way she does. There's a lot you notice when you keep quiet and observe and I don't get many opportunities to do that myself. There's more space in your head to think and process and craft.

I slide into my next class, seconds before the teacher and already open to my page in the book I started this morning. I try to shake the interaction from my head, how Ellie's watchful eyes followed my every move, how she was suddenly speechless when she had been grumbling into the phone moments before. _It was no big deal,_ I tell myself. I was just helping a fellow student out.

Yet, I can't stop thinking about Ellie. How has it been that's been in this little town for 12 years and never once have I said anything to her? I mean, there have been polite greetings and that one time we were paired up to introduce ourselves to each other on the first day of high school. She was so guarded that I didn't learn anything I didn't already know. I knew she was smart, got good grades, done at least half the school's homework once. I knew she read but I didn't know that she read Remains of the Day. If we had one book in common, would the rest of our reading tastes be similar? There's only one way to put it: Ellie Chu intrigues me.

Trig slides his arm around my waist after the last class, while I shove books into my locker. "Hey, babe, something on your mind? Barely saw you today."

"Nothing, really." I make a face. "Just tired." I wonder if he knows me well enough to know that I make a face when I lie. Probably not. Nobody's ever accused me of lying, not with me being my father's daughter.

"Still up to hang, though?"

I almost hesitate but "Yeah, sounds good" jumps out of my mouth. A habit. Sighing, I lean into his touch, resting against him. It's warm and it should be safe. It _is_ safe.

Maybe an afternoon of not-thinking will help clear my mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shorter update, really sorry but I have good things planned for you guys! I have a kinda angst fic and a soft rewrite fic (that focuses on aster and ellie! instead of ellie and paul I mean nothing against paul) in the works so there might be a slight slow down on updates here but thank you thank you thank you for your support. come say to me @outspaced-writes on tumblr ye?

Was that my sign?

It’s not anything out of the ordinary but maybe that’s it. Trig is a constant, he’s not a bad guy. He’s not a bad guy when he wraps his arms around me and passes me a bottle of water and tells me to sleep earlier tonight and tells me it’ll just be the two of us today, since he knows how too many people will only tire me out more. It’s sweet of him and maybe that’s my sign.

Is it fair that Trig is such a sweet, sweet guy, even if he’s still caught up in his head sometimes but that’s not what I want? Sometimes it just doesn’t feel like enough. He’s not a bad person, he’s just not for me.

And then the sign came.

A nondescript envelope slipped into my locker. Sealed.

_Aster,_

_Longing for a wave of love that would stir in me. That’s what makes me clumsy. The absence of pleasure. Desire for love. Desire to love._

It takes me a moment too long to recognize these as Wim Wender’s words.

_I find it easier to watch you from afar. I’m afraid to come too close in case I mess up. I think you’re really beautiful and that makes my mind go blank. All the words in my mouth jumble up when I’m near you, so I just watch. But you’re more than just beautiful, you’re clever too and that’s what makes me want to get to know you. You’re kind and you Sometimes I find that people see you for how you look and they just stop there, they don’t see how you notice things and how there’s more than that to you. I would like to see what more there is to you._

_Paul Munsky_

That’s it. He seemed to have wanted to write more but stopped abruptly.

This, this is different. Nobody has ever written me a letter before. Something about Paul seems… different. He doesn’t sound like the rest of the Squahamish boys, he sounds sweet. Sweet and thoughtful.

Paul always seemed like a well-meaning goofball to me but these words… These words are careful and precise, even if a little hesitant. I smile, reading the letter again. The words are shy but the letter is bold.

I fold the letter back and put it into an envelope, sliding it between my books as I head to class. They seem heavier than normal in my hands. This must be my sign.

I can feel someone watching me and as I turn, Ellie Chu turns around abruptly, suddenly busy with something in her hands. She stares so much and says so little, her words are rarely ever her own, always penned under somebody else’s name. I’ve never been more curious to know what’s going through someone’s mind.

Later, during a particularly boring class, I find myself turning to a blank page of my notebook and putting my pen down.

At first, the words don’t come easily but then I realise that I want to hear more from Paul and the way to find out more is to say less. All I need to do is acknowledge his letter. And then the words come:

_Dear Paul,_

_I like Wim Wender’s too. Wouldn’a plagiarised him though_

_\- Aster_

I’ll put it in his locker first thing tomorrow. That’s the easiest. I’ll find a way to tactfully find out Paul’s locker from the football players. Or I’ll just try to spot him between classes and find out for myself.

Somehow, this feels dangerous. Like I shouldn’t be doing this but I am anyway. Maybe it’s because no boy has ever talked to me because he didn’t like me and I was supposed to be with Trig. If I wrote back, would that be encouraging him?

More importantly: did it matter?

\---

I spot him in the hallway before the last class of the day. His locker is diagonally across from mine which is… close.

Watching Paul chatting with his football buddies makes him seem like any other boy. To think that he was also capable of writing such a letter to me. This makes Paul surprising and his curiosity is probably mutual.

I thought I understood him, that he was just another small town Squahamish boy and sure, he looks like one, acts like one but the things he writes are… different. They intrigue me.

What makes Paul different from most of the semi-popular guys here is that he writes his own essays. I know, the bar is _that_ low. At least, I’ve never seen his name among the stack of essays that are passed around. He doesn’t seem to score that well either but maybe some of our fortes lie in letter writing, not essay writing. Whatever the case may be, I shouldn’t underestimate him any longer.

In this letter, I can feel all the emotions, bubbling underneath. Even if I can’t read all of them, I know that there is something there. To make me feel as if I’ve been shown a very vulnerable part of someone is something only a skilled writer can do with only these few words. Most readers wouldn’t pick up on either.

But I did.

There’s something special in the way he writes. He doesn’t sound like any other boy, in the way that he writes. I wonder where this will take me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this makes up for the past chapter. Things start to pick up a little here. Totally didn't pause on the letter that Aster dropped on the floor to try and read it and realise that it's of no use so I had to improvise. I know I'm still an amateur writer and I mostly write because it's fun, even if I'm not any good, so I appreciate the reads. Probably update again in a few days, wanted to space updates out but yeah last chap was Not Good

Only a day after I respond, I find a new letter in my locker.

_Dear Aster,_

_Okay, you got me. I sometimes hide behind other people’s words. For one thing, I know nothing about love. I’m 17. I’ve lived in Squahamish my whole life. I hang out with my friends. I keep my head down. I’m a simple guy. Which is to say, if I knew what love was, I would quote myself._

_Paul_

Again, with the abrupt ending that leaves me with more questions than answers. Still, my day brightens with a new letter. There aren’t any concise, accurate words to describe what it’s like when you see something that makes your heart freeze for a second and a smile creeps over your face and everything just seems better. Sometimes feelings just don’t agree with words. It won’t do the feeling the honor it deserves.

I turn the letter over in my hands, as I sit on Trig’s truck. I can’t quite tune the boys out as they talk.

“Right here, man. People, air, weather,” One of Trig’s quaddie’s says. His name never stuck in my head.

“Love,” A girl interjects. She giggles. What does she know about love?

“Squahamish, the place to be.” Trig calls out to me, “Isn’t that right, babe?”

I fold the letter back. “Oh, right, yeah.” Somehow, I can’t quite muster up the enthusiasm to match theirs so I punctuate my clumsy words with a smile. He turns away, satisfied. Thank God.

My hands brush an indent on the page, probably from whatever was written on the page above this. He writes pretty hard. If I hold it up in the light, I could probably read it.

Later that night, in my room, when I’m supposed to be asleep, I find out that I can. Just a simple checklist. The boxes are done hard but the words next to them, not so much. Not quite legible enough and if I went over it with a pencil, that seems like I’m trying too hard. It feels like purposely invading his privacy. Besides, it’s likely just a homework list.

This time, my response takes longer. I begin it in the dim light when I can’t sleep and add on as time goes by. This time, his letter is somehow even more thoughtful. It’s like I can really feel what’s going on in his mind and writing about love is a heavy topic. It would need a longer response.

_Dear Paul,_

_You know it takes eleven muscles to yawn? This is the sort of weird fact I find myself recalling to keep myself from, well, yawning. Or showing anything I feel, really. Assuming I know how I feel. So yeah, I turn to other people’s words too. Far better than my own._

The words spill out and they’re random but. But it’s what’s in my head, the things I think of throughout the day. In church, when Dad is preaching, or when I’m having dinner with Trig’s family. It feels like I’m wearing a mask all the time when this is what I’m like underneath. I want Paul to know what I’m like underneath. I don’t know why. And that feels dangerous.

Yet, I find myself doing it anyway.

_When you’re a pretty girl— and I know it makes me sound conceited— but that’s why you’re even writing me, right? When you’re a pretty girl, people want to give you things. What they really want is to make you like them. Not like them as in “I like you” but like them as in “I am like you”._

It happens more often, when I really think about it. Cardigans from quaddie girls, things like that. They’re all blonde and I don’t dye my hair. They don’t get why but if I say Dad wouldn’t allow it, then they do. Even if Dad allowed it, I would rather leave my hair as it is.

_So, I’m like a lot of people which makes me kind of no one._

If you stripped me of all things I am because of other people, you’d find that I’m not much under all of that. Just something faded, from never getting to see the light. I stop my letter there. Oversharing doesn’t frighten me as much as it should but if I told him everything he wanted to know, or maybe something he didn’t want to know, he might not write back. And it would be all over. Keep him wanting more, because that’s what I want too.

_\- Aster_

I tuck it into his locker in between classes.

_Dear Aster,_

_I never really thought about the oppression of fitting in before. The good thing about being different is that no one expects you to be like them._

I find it strange, coming from Paul who, if anything— and I mean no offence— is like any other Squahamish boy at first glance. At every glance, even. Until you read one of his letters.

_I never considered how that might be freedom, in it’s own way. Barely any expectations to meet, everybody’s eyes just skip over you and there is reassurance in not being seen. Sometimes, they expect so little, you might as well not exist._

Like a ghost.

_I never thought that you— Aster Flores— would feel weighed down by all the expectations but, then again, I never thought about it. I have newfound appreciation for being different, thanks to your insightful words. Your words are far better than others’. They come from you._

_Paul_

The end is sweet. I feel like he’s seen into my mind, seen that little husk of Aster Flores under what the world wants her to be and, strangely, I’m okay with that.

_Dear Paul,_

_When it comes to being different, doesn’t everyone think they’re different, but pretty much we’re all different in the same way? Still, I get that. It would be nice to have everyone’s gaze slide off you like water on a duck. Don’t know why I said that but did you know that ducks are found on every continent except Antarctica? Don’t underestimate ducks.You shouldn’t hide behind other people’s words, I find yours much more pleasant. You have a way with words, in case you haven’t noticed. So, no, I don’t think you’re clumsy. In real life, I have yet to find out but in writing, you are certainly not._

_\- Aster_

I would be lying if I said that my heart never skipped a beat whenever I found a new envelope in my locker, marked with the same handwriting that I’ve come to find familiar.

_Aster,_

_Some of us are more different than others. You might be surprised._

_Paul_

Well, that was… short. It feels more like texting now, friendly banter. If that’s what he wants, I’ll give it to him.

_Well, you are surprising._

_Aster_

I next run into Ellie in the bathroom when I’m waiting for a stall. Small school, bound to happen sooner or later but interesting, considering I saw her two days in a row (and I’m fairly sure she saw me too) and then for a few days I didn’t.

She stands at the sink, carefully washing her hands. She wears a different flannel shirt and her jeans are still cuffed on only one side. An interesting fashion statement but knowing what I know about her, I’m led to believe that it’s an accident she couldn’t be bothered to figure. If she’s aware.

She scrubs furiously at her hands and I catch her eye in the mirror. Two quaddie girls discuss something about the different Gaps near here loudly. If they knew that someone was waiting, they probably didn’t care anyway.

The same smile tugs on my lips and when she looks away, I stop trying to hold it back. It blooms on my face and I don’t know why. Running into Ellie made me feel a little better.

The interesting thing about people is that they’re drawn to their names.

“Aster is so lucky.”

“Totes lucky. His family owns half of Squahamish.”

“Hers doesn’t even own their house.”

Something bubbles in me as the smile fades off. I swallow it and walk out before I can process what I heard. Ellie stops scrubbing her hands, eyes trailing after me. If she’s going to offer sympathy, I don’t want it.

Ellie slips out of the bathroom a few minutes later, hands somehow covered in bike grease again. I catch a flash of metal being stuffed into her back pocket. More grease.

Yells echo from the bathroom. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe the mysterious Ellie Chu had more to offer than sympathy.

She blends almost perfectly into the crowd. If I hadn’t been watching her, I wouldn’t have seen her. What I do see across the hall, holding his phone and typing with the concentration of furrowed brows is Paul.

A note shows up in my locker, towards the second half of the day. A little dark smudge on the corner. It seems to have gotten marginally fainter and noticeably larger after some rubbing. It doesn’t disappear and the ghost of the smudge still lies on the letter. Doesn’t seem like ink but most probably. Paul’s a clumsy guy anyway.

_What’s surprising is: people don’t see what they’re not looking for._

I write back, nearly a week later, after a particularly thought-provoking shift at work

_The obvious unseen. I’ve been thinking about what you said about seeing and not seeing. I had a painting teacher once tell me that the difference between a good painting and a great painting is typically five strokes. And they are usually the five boldest strokes in the painting. The question, of course, is which five strokes?_

_\- Aster_

I scribble the name of the painting in question at the bottom. I could always text him a photo but I don’t feel like texting. What we have in letter is seperate from that and it should remain that way, at least for now.


End file.
